I find myself standing in the kitchen, the dark light of the moon shining through the floor to ceiling glass, the reflection of the pool’s surface shimmering on the ceiling. I hold my hand out before me, the one I took to her, and watch as it seems to morph and twist, abstract patterns swirling gently on my rough skin.
Then I turn slowly and look up at the portrait of my wife, her eyes burning into me, her face alive with movement, her cheeks and jaw shifting as though she’s still alive.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, then I close my eyes and shake my head.
I move to the fridge and take out a beer, squeeze open the cap and flick it into the bin.
‘What have I done?’
Nothing wrong.
I sit down at the breakfast bar, cross my arms and take a long swig, the ice-cold brew loosening my muscles and making my head swim.
I want her to stay, but I don’t want her to feel trapped. I don’t want her to think I’m some monster, taking advantage of her. But isn’t that what this is? She needs this job. She said so herself, and here I am, taking what I want from her.
I feel sick.
I need to make this right, but how?
‘What do I do?’ I whisper.
I close my eyes and sink into the table, the shimmering lights strangely calming, filtered with darkness as I drift into a deep, dark sleep.
*
*